


Tonight is To Us

by TheBitterKitten



Series: Night Calling [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal Lecter, DInner and a show, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, HannibaLibre, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Murder Husbands, Petty Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Pov: Hannibal Lecter, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBitterKitten/pseuds/TheBitterKitten
Summary: Hannibal takes Will to see an opera. Will plays a game.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Night Calling [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043592
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	Tonight is To Us

“Come sit, Will. I’d like to start reading,” Hannibal calls into the kitchen from the living room. He turns on the ceiling fan out of habit before he stands in front of their bookcase. He pulls the book from its place on the shelf and flips to where they left off, skimming over the last few passages to remind himself of the tone and cadence, the particular lyricism of the prose. He tries not to flinch at the rough clattering of fragile porcelain as Will puts away the few dishes Hannibal left for him. He reminds himself that Will had been used to Corelle.

“In a minute. There’s just one more. It would have gone faster if you were helping, you know.”

“Yes, but I made dinner. I believe the usual set up is ‘one cooks, the other cleans?’” He’d help if he thought Will actually wanted it, but it’s just his prickly way, from his tone.

“Are we usual?”

“You have more experience in that than I,” he says lightly. Hannibal likes to remind Will, only occasionally, whom he’s chosen.

“I’ll be in in a minute.” It’s not quite guarded, just more distant. Just a softening to the edges, a little less tangible, a little less transparent. Hannibal is not pleased, backs away from that particular line in the sand into silence. The evening has gone too well to dissolve into meaningless bickering, considering the alternatives.

In a moment, Will comes into the room to stand by his side, sleeves rolled up his forearms. His posture is still easy and open to Hannibal. He hands him one of two wineglasses in his hand. They’re both overfull with the Leacock’s Sercial Solera Hannibal had opened for dessert, but Hannibal takes pride in Will’s developing palate; the fact Will enjoyed it enough to do so.

Hannibal holds up _Les Misérables_ , and Will follows him to the sofa. Hannibal sits to one side of center, curious to see which side Will chooses; more or less space between them. More than likely the side with distance.

Instead, Will sits closer to Hannibal. And then Will tosses his legs over Hannibal’s knees, settling deeply into the nook of the armrest and the cushion, a picture of comfort.

“Ready,” he says, daring Hannibal to say something about this unexpected closeness. Hannibal just settles the book against Will’s knees laid across his thighs. He cradles them with his free hand so Will can relax his muscles. It’s already very warm, ticking quickly towards distasteful in this humidity even without the added heat from Will’s weight and no airflow between them. But Hannibal wouldn’t trade it. He’ll shower before bed, certainly, and drag Will in along with him. But for now, it’s bearable, and the willing contact is very nice indeed.

Hannibal finds he most enjoys their evenings. Truthfully, aside from a misunderstanding here or there that was mended bloodlessly— rather pleasurably, actually, and that bears examination into other misunderstandings which might occur between them— they have, in the last few weeks, existed in a harmony of routine Hannibal hadn’t pictured himself enjoying before.

Long quiet days spent together in the morning sun stretching over their bed; a noon sun bathing them at the beach, browning them into deep tan, ameliorated by liberal sunscreen. Hannibal composing at their piano in the late afternoon with Will bent close at the desk, painstakingly disassembling and fixing a timepiece. Hannibal had suggested that Will try fixing it; Hannibal was fond of the watch, a Jaeger Lecoultre Reverso. It had stopped years ago, kept in the lockbox with the passports they’re using and travel money. Hannibal thought Will might enjoy the tinkering, if he could disregard the history they shared surrounding timekeeping and clock faces. His own pleasure at the idea of wearing something so close to his pulse that Will had set into motion was present, but secondary. Will had thrown himself into it wholeheartedly.

Dinner on the front porch, in the setting sun and salt air of the ocean.

In these evenings, in the cooler air of their home, Hannibal feels a calm equilibrium between them that he treasures.

And so Hannibal begins to read.Will shuts his eyes, no doubt imagining brilliantly the scene and the characters. Half an hour passes and he’s somewhere into Fantine’s tribulations when Will opens his eyes, watches Hannibal’s hands turn the page, and then pulls out his mobile. He doesn’t even try to hide it as he types in a few words and begins to scroll. Hannibal can ignore that for a few pages. He puts more emphasis and emotion into the French relating Fantine’s struggle with Bambatabois and Valjean’s intercession. After a few pages, he cannot bear it any longer. He shuts the book, holding the place with his finger. He offers in clipped tones, “Surely I can hold your attention better than the dogs you haven’t had the chance to bring home?”

“ _Bien sûr, mais, cette partie traîne_ ,” * Will replies. Hannibal isn’t certain that Will actually meant to reply in French; thus implying a larger part of him was focused on Hannibal reading than it seemed. But Will doesn’t look up from his phone in his lap even now, still scrolling. “It’s just Fantine, struggling alone with her daughter at the hands of other people until she dies.”

Hannibal is about to say that Will must identify quite closely with her for it to affect him so deeply. But there’s something delicate and uncertain etched into his face that Hannibal very much wants to wipe away. So he settles for the obvious and vaguely galling.

“Hearing French, speaking English, and, still, even now, reading Spanish?” he asks. His other has always had a way of doing the extraordinary— in this case, parsing three languages simultaneously— and making it seem so normal it’s easily overlooked. And his reactions to compliments are always entertaining.

“I have an eidetic memory. I pick up languages fast,” Will looks up at him, something challenging in his eyes, saying it almost apologetically.

“And of course, your considerable intelligence puts that eidetic memory to good use,” Hannibal lets the genuine admiration seep through in his tone, watches as Will struggles to accept the compliment. He holds tightly to his knees, preventing him from getting up. Will swallows.

“If we’re going to keep reading this, can we skip ahead to... Valjean taking in Cosette, or wherever? Or will your neuroses preclude anything but every word given its full measure?” As he suspected, Will changes the subject and goes on the offensive. A flush has risen in his cheeks and there’s that delicate scent of... bashfulness that’s so alluring. And of course, Will identified the reason Hannibal would either stop entirely or read through to the end.

“Here is a good place to stop for the evening; it’s getting on. But,” he pauses. Will will probably change his mind tomorrow and they can continue, or they’ll find another book. The thought strikes him, though, that Will gets invested in the stories they read together, and Hannibal likes seeing him that way. _Faust_ is playing at the opera house in town, one of his favorites, if only for Mephistopheles. He doesn’t think Will has seen it, and he’d like the chance to show him. “I have tickets to an opera tomorrow evening. Would you join me, Will?”

His other thinks it over briefly, and then nods. “Yeah, sure, my evening’s free.”

Hannibal is pleased. “Settled, then. Tomorrow. Five-thirty for dinner.” Having gotten what he wanted, he releases Will’s legs, expecting him to swing them down and already anticipating a relief from the heat they’ve created.

Will pauses, and there’s something light and tentative in his expression. “You can keep reading. Get through this section and the next.”

Hannibal is caught between maintaining the contact and how uncomfortable he is. He can already feel sweat prickling along the nape of his neck. He should have taken off his jacket before they sat down. “That’s around thirty pages, Will.”

“You have wine to wet your tongue.” Will is already scrolling through his phone again, his pupils suddenly growing dark and wide. The finger slows. Scrolls back up. Stops. He’s found one he’s connected to, and so they’ll be having that conversation sooner or later.

But more importantly, Will is conceding. While it’s clear he’ll be looking at dogs —one dog— until Fantine is dead, he wants to stay here with Hannibal. He wants to get through the part that’s difficult for him, and end for the night on a better note. That is worth sweat and partial attention and soon dog fur and dander all over everything. Hannibal finds his place and begins to read again.

The next evening, Hannibal picks out the suit he had tailored for Will the last time he was in town alone, laying it out on the bed. The tailor initially balked at no measurements on the body, but Hannibal convinced him he knew Will’s measurements and a fitting would ruin the surprise. Laying it out, he’s certain the fit will be close and lay quite well. He moves to order the tickets, seating them in the center back of the orchestra section for the best view and acoustics. He makes a reservation for dinner before he calls Will in from the beach to prepare.

After he’s set the shower running, he returns to the very gratifying sight of Will running his fingers almost reverently along the navy linen, barely touching it. 

“I like it,” he says, and moves to strip for the shower. His clothes lie in a sandy, dripping pile on the parquet wood floor, but Hannibal barely has time to spare a thought for it before Will is passing him in the doorframe, inviting him along. He follows, hands drifting to the lithe hips in front of him.

The shower serves a purpose, and they perform it dutifully. They scrub each other clean under the rainfall system Hannibal had changed from the sad lone shower head when he bought the property some years ago. But Will is too close to ignore. He doesn’t stop himself from enjoying the view, or pulling Will closer for a better look. He thrills when Will pushes him against the wall of the shower, captures him in a kiss. This is still a relatively new, deeply welcome development in their relationship, and every time (there have been many times) seems an unexpected blessing;a too-brief vision of the divine. He tilts his head to get a better angle, parts his lips to let Will in. Time slows. Everything else slides by when Will claims him like this. He’s still enjoying the kiss and pushing away the sensation that he’ll need air eventually when Will breaks it. His face slides down his chest, down his belly, beard grazing his skin. Hannibal barely has time to process before Will is on him, swallowing him whole.

Exquisite comes close, but not quite, to the sight of Will on his knees and his plush lips stretched wide around him, those long lashes of his starred and sparkling with droplets of water. Doesn’t begin to approach the feel of him. Hannibal threads his fingers through his wet curls, not pushing him down yet, just confirming that he’s real, and present. Thought slips away as he feels the hot resistance of the back of Will’s throat fluttering against him, the flex and spread of his velvet tongue, feels that resistance give way and make room for him. Will’s nose is brushing against his skin, and the wet, cut-off, almost choking moans and little intermittent gasps coming from the man before him could sustain Hannibal for a month. It’s just feeling now, feeling that sucking sweet pressure drawing him further and further in, the inexorable tightening and coiling in his gut. He doesn’t want this to end, steadies himself and tries to buy a few more moments. It’s wasted in the face of Will, and Hannibal is a bowstring drawn taut, his body singing in anticipation. He’s just at the precipice, feels his orgasm unspooling to wind out through him when Will pulls away entirely and he’s left only the drenching, insufficient patter of the shower. He moans at the loss.

“Don’t touch me until I say.” Will’s voice is thick, but determined, and Hannibal stills his hands before they reach for Will. He stares at the other man, trying to collect his thoughts.

“What show are we seeing tonight?” Will asks, wiping his mouth with his thumb. Of everything Will could have said, could be thinking of, this seems... inconsequential at best. But Hannibal takes a breath, pulls himself together. “ _Faust_.” His voice is a little shakier than he would prefer.

“Feeling self-indulgent?” is the goading reply, and through the overwhelming haze of his need, a fog he’s working to shut away so he can focus, all he can manage is, “You know, you’re rather lucky I like your cheek.”

“Yeah, I’d say you do,” Will is laughing; a fey, impermanent being standing before him, shutting off the shower. “Come on, or we’ll be late for dinner.” And then he’s gone, a shadow through the glass wall of the shower.

Hannibal breathes, gathering himself in where Will has so easily scattered him. He follows.

Will keeps away from him in the bedroom, wearing an easy smile and his towel, the spiced warmth scent of his arousal fresh and heavy around him. It reminds Hannibal of cardamom, or ginger. Hannibal sees now it’s a game between them; who has more patience to resist touching the other, presumably until the end of the evening. Hopefully not longer.

He accepts with a nod. “I only wish we started a few minutes later.”

This is either the wrong thing to say, or the right thing, because Will is making an absolute production of pulling his trousers up over his legs, pulling the fabric up to cover his naked flesh, let it be highlighted in the drape of the garment. Hannibal focuses instead on dressing himself with less showmanship. Normally, he abstains from black suits; they are generally too pedestrian and funereal, and highlight his features a bit too sharply. But this particular suit complements Will’s, and in its own way is a fitting tribute to Faust. 

Hannibal’s occasional glances turn lingering, turn to open and plain wanting as Will tucks his shirt in, buttons up the waistcoat. He’s perfect— Will is exactly as he pictured him: darkly and keenly beautiful. Subtly set apart from all the rest; a lion not quite blending in amongst the lambs. He’s smiling, a sharp, sly thing, clearly enjoying the power he has over Hannibal, but Hannibal is just grateful for the chance to see him in this way outside of his memory palace. Hannibal settles his silk tie against his neck and ties it efficiently. He’s very confident he can outlast Will, given the sheer extent of the other’s arousal.“Shall we?”

Hannibal distracts himself on the drive over with probing Will about his reaction to Fantine. If he’s not allowed to touch, he’ll have him more intimately. “Fantine affects you so deeply?”

“She was only trying to live, and other people dragged her into things she couldn’t escape from. She had to give up everything; she gave up her hair, her teeth, her body for a greedy lie. When she tried to defend herself, she was threatened with jail.” Will is open, doesn’t hide the edge in his voice.

“But Valjean risked his freedom to save her. He intervened when he didn’t have to, gambled the life he’d built for himself.” It seems terribly important just now to emphasize that Fantine was never truly alone once she and Valjean were met.

“That was unrelated, the court scene. It was between Valjean and Javert. And, it should be noted that finding out Valjean’s identity literally killed Fantine from the shock.” The denial cuts deeply, more so than Hannibal would have thought. He casts about for a rejoinder, but they’re only the facts. He gives Will a quick glance, gauging him. Before he can say anything though, Will continues, “But Valjean saw Fantine, where other people saw an object, or a means to an end.” He says this with just as much conviction as the earlier condemnation, and something in Hannibal’s heart settles.

“Valjean cared for her as much as he could given the circumstances. He took in her daughter; loved her as his own when Fantine was gone. Gave Cosette the best life he could. Denied her nothing.” It may be mixing and stretching already thin metaphors, but it’s true nonetheless.

“Would you deny me anything?” Will is suddenly boldly personal and direct, and yet he’s let his legs fall apart in the seat, knees touching the door and the console. His hand cups and presses down against the prominent bulge in his lap, fingers grasping at the fabric clothing his inner thighs as if it weren’t there at all. Hannibal feels the car drift before he realises just how long he’s been looking, and returns his gaze to the road. He swallows. He sees, too, the real question despite the tempting misdirection.

“As you’re so callously denying me? No. Never. You only need ask, and sooner or later you shall have it, if I haven’t already provided it.”

Even if Will were to never touch him again, all he would have to do is ask and anything under the sun would be his. Hannibal, thinking deeply, finds he has precious little to request of Will they haven’t already shared. He feels Will’s hand hover close to his leg, but draw away. They can tell truths and still play the game.

“Valjean paid dearly for the opportunity to care for Cosette.” Will’s voice is soft.

“As far along as we are in the story, he counts it as a price well-paid.” Hannibal brushes three years away in a moment.

“I rather enjoyed that he faked his death by falling into the ocean.”

They share a smile, warmed by that last moment on the cliff above waves.

As Hannibal pulls into a parking space and opens Will’s door, he’s struck by the emotions flickering openly over his other’s face behind the glass. Tenderness, latent arousal, and that Puckish set to his brows that promises nothing but trouble, certainly. But there is a hope there that matches Hannibal’s; one that’s both already fulfilled and present, and yet too soon to allow himself to fully feel. Hannibal finds he very much wants Will to embrace it. He opens the door.

Will doesn’t hold himself back from any stray fancy he thinks will needle Hannibal. He walks a distance from him, a little behind, not letting Hannibal match pace with him. As they enter the restaurant, Will lets his gaze fall openly and unmistakably over the woman in the couple entering behind them and they share a smile. Hannibal ignores this. It’s too easy, and she’s nothing special at all. It’s a smaller restaurant; lush bright walls and clean decor. They’re seated away from the other couple, among patrons further into their meals.

Will is, however, brazenly forward with the waiter. He takes his menu with his fingers —his fingers that were just recently caressing his thighs— and lets the waiter graze them with his own. Hannibal merely watches, seeing just how far Will is planning to take this, already planning a meal with the waiter’s liver. Perhaps a dish from this restaurant. He skims the menu.

“Will you order for me?” It’s a tone Will doesn’t use outside of their intimacies, needful and coy, and he’s looking up at him through his lashes, face bowed to the menu. Hannibal takes a breath, and then orders suckling pig in a reduction of orange blossoms and honey for Will, and a filet mignon for himself; knowing he will pick up on the warning.

But Will is still encouraging the waiter with small little requests that bring him to their table over and over. A fresh napkin. More butter for the bread. Pepper, please. A new glass for his wine? It gives the waiter, a young man with a pedestrian — on his best days, and this is not a good day for him— attractiveness the plausible deniability to hover near their table and watch as Will’s throat swallows down his water, plausible deniability to lean in too close and stretch out for Will as he fills Will’s glass on the far side of the table. The waiter has the audacity and foolhardy presumption to rest his hand on Will’s shoulder for “balance” as he does so. Hannibal goes completely still, rage darkening the edges of his vision. A finger rests on the blade of his knife. Will winks at him. Hannibal’s gaze tracks the waiter as he leaves, and he is only slightly gratified to see the man shiver and bring a hand up to run over the back of his neck as he moves away.

Hannibal knows Will is playing him. Will is perfectly balanced between giving Hannibal just enough attention and encouraging the waiter to take another liberty. Hannibal idly wonders how the waiter would look with Hannibal’s knife in his chest and blood flowing freely from his neck into Will’s water glass. Idly, since he’s too comfortable where they are nowto move on account of one little incident. Less idly, he considers where a pig like this, rude enough to flirt obnoxiously with one half of a couple in front of the other, might live in the city. Its schedule and routine. Vulnerable places to catch it and stick it. But Will draws his attention back to their evening: sensing, perhaps, the danger the waiter is oblivious to. Hannibal, for his part, vents his ire by drawing bold strokes between Rousseau’s social contract and Faust’s treatment of his duchy. He emphasizes personal responsibility, people moderating their own behavior to prevent ill consequences, and that Faust’s moment of true happiness brought about by Mephistopheles, what he sought all his life for, traded his soul to a demon for, was in fact behaving in a way that benefited the people he governed.

When the main course arrives, Will makes a spectacle of himself. It’s clear this, at least, is only for Hannibal. Tainting their food with such behavior towards another would be a step too far for them both. Hannibal struggles between enjoying his own meal and the pleasure of watching Will so conspicuously consume his own, warning and all. Hannibal is doing a passable job, but suddenly there’s a leg between his, so close to pressing against his swollen groin his breath catches, feeling the heat, craving it. Hannibal considers if this is the invitation Will asked him to wait for. If so, they’ll see Faust another time. Just as he moves to capture the leg with his own, it’s gone. His hand trembles visibly with the loss and disappointment, and Will is triumphant.

“Your behavior is really quite unanswerable.” To say anymore would be dangerous.

Will gloats over dessert, and Hannibal finally abandons the pretense of eating for simply watching Will wrap his lips around his spoon. Will lets a drop of melted white gelato start to trickle down his lip before he licks it away. Hannibal is remembering the shower.

Once they pay the bill and Hannibal has laid a hook for the waiter, if he is truly stupid enough to pursue Will, they leave for the theatre.

It’s reassuringly obvious that Will is not entirely unaffected by Hannibal, and he’s sure it’s not an act that Will is a bare few inches away from him now, looks like he’d invite Hannibal to press him up against the building they’re passing and have him right there. It’s Hannibal’s turn to preen, and Will’s occasional hungry glances over are reward enough. For now. Hannibal retrieves their tickets from will-call and shows them to the usher. They find their seats. Any hope Hannibal entertained of perhaps brushing against him in the dark is dashed as Will shifts to the side of his seat furthest from Hannibal, making any touch deliberate and therefore forfeiture of the game.

Hannibal distracts himself from their respective states as much as he can. The theatre is not overly large, the air system is lacking, and cardamom is thick in his nose.

The lights dim, and the opera begins.

The actors are talented, and tell the story well. It’s no debate whether the show itself or Will watching it is more enjoyable. Will is enraptured from the overture; reflections of what the actors are performing on stage appearing on his face. Almost imperceptible at first, and then reflected, then mirrored fully. Hannibal can read the scene on Will’s face as they reach the climax, parse which character most affects him. He hasn’t turned away from Will’s profile for the last fifteen minutes. As the lights come up and the theatre is filled with applause, Will’s eyes fall shut, and he’s just floating in it. He’s so impossibly beautiful like this.

This is the most strenuous test of Hannibal’s self-control, and he places his hands flat on his thighs, gripping them. Hannibal will draw him like this the next opportunity he has. It takes a long time for Will to open his eyes in the murmur of the crowd at intermission moving for the lobby or standing and stretching. He looks immediately for Hannibal, something soft shading his face when their eyes meet. “Thank you for this.”

“Would you like a drink?”

They mill in the theatre lobby sipping their drinks, a double Macallan for Will and a Sauternes for Hannibal. They’re discussing Marguerite’s aria when a man lingering on the edge of their conversation, hoping to seem a part of their group, joins in with absolutely nothing to add. But Hannibal will use anything he can get, as he’s growing too focused on the pulse beating against the skin at the collar of Will’s shirt, imagining his tongue against it.

The man drags the conversation onto himself, and Hannibal lets him. He drones on about his children and the milquetoast joys of fatherhood. Hannibal spares a thought for Abigail; for Will. For the opportunities Hannibal has taken from him because he needs Will more. Morgan Verger-Bloom crosses his mind, and with it, Hannibal’s promise to Alana. Will shifts his stance. It’s subtle, but the lines of his suit, the lines of the body it clothes, become mouth-wateringly apparent; inviting inspection, inviting appreciation. The man’s searching eyes leave Hannibal, flit over to Will standing just half an arm’s length away from Hannibal and quietly glorious. The man doesn’t deserve to look at Will at all. Hannibal quickly offers a response to the man’s last statement, flattering him, drawing the man’s attention back to himself. No one else deserves to see Will like this. This is for Hannibal alone. He wants to sweep Will away from any other eyes upon him, from anyone else witnessing his beauty, to some secret place for themselves alone.

Will is showing his teeth in a smile. The lights dim, once and then twice, calling the patrons back to their seats. In the middle of Hannibal’s sentence, Will downs the rest of his beverage and sets the empty glass on the first available counter, heads for the theatre without a glance back. Hannibal follows, offering a goodbye to the man, bids his child luck in ballet. He wishes Will would have let him make a proper exit, but he follows.

The second half of the opera is only Hannibal watching Will swim in the performance. He steadily breathes in heavy cardamom and ginger and mint, matching his own desire and stills himself, moment by moment, against his impulses. His mouth is dry. He hasn’t looked but once at the stage, for Mephistopheles.

Hannibal envisions several routes on the hour’s drive to their home. None of them end at the house on their beach before he’s pulled the car over, moved onto Will in the passenger seat beside him, or dragged Will onto him. He considers, just briefly, forfeiting right now. Claiming Will in his seat amongst all the other inconsequential eyes focused on the stage, or maybe kneeling before him in the narrow row of seats, choking, but deliciously. He holds himself together.

And at last, it’s done. The actors gather in a line on the stage, bowing once, twice, a third time, and Will is standing, applauding with the audience. Hannibal stands with Will, a bare inch apart.

The walk to the car is a little easier, a warm breeze wafting Will’s scent away from Hannibal; just enough to clear his mind. Still, Hannibal is watching the sway of Will’s gait and the tilt of his head as he walks along the pavement, feels in his memory Will’s tongue against his length.

“Faust killed Valentín only because Mephistopheles held Valentín’s sword and let him,” Will says.

“And that resonated with you, Will?”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for holding the gun.”

“‘All good things come to those who wait’ is an oft-spoken proverb,” Hannibal murmurs. Soon, they might go hunting for a social worker.

“I imagine that’s a rather immediate lesson for you right now, isn’t it?” Will smiles broadly, showing teeth.

“You’re being viciously cruel, yes,” Hannibal knows Will can pick up on what exactly he’s feeling right now if he tries, and so he stops, fixing him with a stare. “And what do you think might happen once we arrive home?”

Will’s face slackens a bit as he takes Hannibal in. He swallows, lids fluttering as he tries to collect himself. His gaze slides away to the pavement, and he takes a shaky breath.

“I might go to bed.”

“You won’t sleep.”

“I’m counting on that.”

They are quite silent on the drive home, the minutes stretching before them. Every instant is a victory on Hannibal’s part; each moment the car stays on the road and doesn’t pull over is a triumph.

Hannibal steers them at long last into their drive, and Will is opening his door and leaning out before Hannibal has turned the car off. Will’s jacket lies forgotten on the seat. Hannibal is out and at the door while Will is still fumbling for the keys in his pocket, heading up the walk.

He opens the door, daring Will to enter and shutting the door firmly behind them. They keep their distance as they kick off socks and shoes, hang up jackets. Will has just laid his waistcoat over the back of a chair when he looks up. He freezes at Hannibal’s expression. Hannibal is standing in bare feet, quite still, staring him down. The game is up.

There is a moment, a fraught instant between them, each gazing into the other, before Will bolts away down the short passage to their bed. Hannibal pursues him with a snarl, not holding back. Hannibal catches Will around the waist in the door of their bedroom. He lifts him bodily, tackling him down onto the bed. He drinks in Will’s breathy grunt as the air is driven from his lungs at the force of the impact. Hannibal is on him, over him; claiming, paying due the tab Will has started. Will is trembling as he winds his limbs around Hannibal, giving himself up, urging Hannibal to take his pleasure.

He strips away what remains of Will’s clothes. His hands are steady, until Will’s skin and scars lie bare beneath him. He pins Will down to the bed by the wrists and with a kiss that is more consuming than caress. Will pushes up against him, pulls him in closer. He strains at Hannibal’s grip on him just to feel the resistance, his mouth open and willing.

Hannibal’s hands go everywhere; into Will’s hair, palms running up against his chest, parting his thighs, skimming against his calf, or his ribs, sweeping over his length, just once. Hannibal grinds down against him, straining in his trousers and animal in his need. Hannibal feels Will stretching for his own nightstand, the drawer there, and then Will is holding a little glass bottle in his fist like a talisman. Before Hannibal can counter, Will has flipped them over. Where Hannibal had straddled Will, pinning him to the bed with his weight, he’s now spread for Will, laid out on his back.

“You’ll let me have you?” it’s thick and low with Will’s need, and Hannibal is suddenly dizzy with desire.

“Anything, Will, please,” he hears himself say.

“Get these off already,” Will pants, and Hannibal is pulling off his trousers as Will undoes his shirt, entirely too much fabric bunching between them.

Will twists his slick fingers inside Hannibal, stretching him, testing his capacity for Will’s girth. Hannibal is quite appreciative of his efforts, sighing deeply and arching up against him every so often. He pulls Will’s hand away from his length when he strokes it; he wants this to last, and it’s been a trying evening. He holds Will’s hand in his own. Hannibal watches Will’s face above him. At first, only for the pleasure of the view, and then with wide-eyed fascination. Will is present, but the boundaries he protects his sense of self with aren’t quite there, perhaps because of the evening, or the opera. Whatever the cause, the result is that Will seems himself entirely, but there are flickers of Hannibal himself moving across his face. He breathes in time with Hannibal’s breaths, steady. His posture, kneeling over him, is somewhere between Hannibal’s pliant responsiveness and his own dominating rigidity. The only word for it is divine.

A wet hand braces firmly on his stomach and Will’s head is pressing insistently against him, demanding entrance. Hannibal rolls up, tilting his hips, allowing him in. And then all he can process is the feel of Will suddenly fully inside him, all at once. The devouring, all-encompassing stretch and heat and weight of him drives out other thought, is a wall of pure intense sensation. Hannibal is undone, a deep, guttural sound forced from him as Will’s thighs draw flush against his hips. Will grips his leg behind the knee and pushes up, allowing himself to sink even further in, his mouth dropping open with an answering moan. And Hannibal has to shut his eyes just for a moment, teeth bared, until it’s less overwhelming; until it softens and melts into wanton, unbridled desperation for friction. It doesn’t take long.

Perhaps sensing, perhaps because of his own urges, Will is relentless. Hannibal moves with him, at first, about to roll them over. Their eyes meet, and Hannibal is pierced by the firestorm in Will, the need for this to follow Will’s direction. Hannibal concedes easily, wrapping his legs around his waist and letting Will have control, lets Will turn him gradually to liquid beneath him. He grips Will by the shoulders, hands hooked over his back, and the thick rhythmic slap of their flesh meeting is almost drowned out by just how loud he is. Hannibal is there with him, a grunt pushed out of him with every thrust, trying to hold back and extend this moment with every bit of his strength. But the slide of their skin against his length trapped between them is too much, is pure heat and heaving friction and the nudging ridge of his scar along Will’s belly. Hannibal can’t hold out. And then Will buries his face in Hannibal’s throat, muffling himself. Hannibal feels Will’s teeth press into his flesh, the wet press of his tongue. He’s trembling; one of them is shaking, and distantly, cardamom blooms thickly into fern and peony and lemon around them as Will is coming.

Hannibal gives himself over, and lets the orgasm cascade over him; feels himself emptied and lets Will fill him and subsume him with a broken sigh.

He becomes aware quickly that Will is limp atop him, his surprisingly dense weight pressing him into the bed with no effort from Will to keep it off him. He doesn’t mind, but he peels a hand from where he’s been gripping Will’s back and runs it through Will’s hair, trying to get a look at his face. Will’s eyes are unseeing. Hannibal is very deeply gratified, feels a swell of affection for Will overcome.

He shifts them, sliding easily in their tangle of sweat and stickiness. He reaches a hand down between them and pulls Will gingerly out of himself with a hiss of oversensitivity and a slick rush that dribbles onto the sheets beneath him. He immediately regrets doing so, feels intensely the fluttering ache and loss and phantom fullness. He resettles Will onto his chest and tucks Will’s head under his chin, hooking a leg over the other's. He feels humbled. He holds Will close, basks in the reassuringly physical heat of him.

He doesn’t mind their state at all, just now; rather, he feels holy, having taken communion. He caresses his other, broad hand trailing over his freckled back. He feels a sudden tautness in Will’s frame as his other comes around, and his arms tighten around him. Will relaxes almost instantly. They are quiet for a long moment.

“Was it worth it?” Will’s boundaries must be entirely absent, because a childhood accent warms his words and Hannibal savors it.

“Yes. I’d pay again, thrice-over, to have you like this,” Hannibal answers, trying with every fiber of his being to express the depth of his emotion. To his surprise, Will grows loose in his grasp, relaxing into sleep. He’s entrusting himself to Hannibal in a way he never has, not even when they were just having conversations in his office in Baltimore. Will has unerringly preferred to clean up alone when they’re intimate so far, grows distant and snappish if Hannibal presses him for conversation until some hours later, or the next morning, working at redefining the boundaries in his mind. But right now, he’s comfortable enough to fall asleep on him. Hannibal doesn’t have words for this gift Will is giving him, just cradles him in the headiness of their mixed scent. He might drift.

At length, and all too soon, Hannibal can’t stand the mess; the tacking of their skin as they breathe; the cold wet cling of the sheets. He rolls Will so gently onto the bed beside him, pets his cheek. Will is asleep, soundly. Hannibal gets up, stretching languidly, and washes up as quickly as he can at the sink. He brings a warm, wet cloth back to the bed to wipe Will down. Will shifts at the touch, leaning into it, doesn’t wake.

He gathers himself, evaluates the sheets. They’re absolutely unsalvageable; stained, with dark splotches of wetness spreading or drying. Hannibal doesn’t want to wake Will, but this can’t stay. He hooks his arms under his shoulders and knees, lifts him and settles him with his legs draped over the armchair in the corner, settles his head against the winged backrest. Hannibal draws a hand across Will’s cheek, only reverent.

He turns away with effort and strips their bed hastily, setting the glass bottle tangled in the sheets onto Will’s nightstand before he carries the bundled cloth to the laundry room. He takes a fresh set from the linen closet on the way back. He looks for Will as he enters their room. The man hasn’t moved, a picture of complete satisfaction. Hannibal is relieved and makes up the bed efficiently. He turns back the covers, nestling Will into his side of their bed and covering him with the sheets before he crawls onto his own. He flips on his light and picks up his tablet. He scrolls through dog shelters near them, trying to find the dog which caught Will’s eye. Before long, he notices Will is rousing, stretching out beneath the covers and orienting himself.

“How are you feeling, Will?”

Will is quiet, and Hannibal looks over to him, assessing, wondering if his boundaries have returned. In any case, he’s positively beatific in the warm light of the lamp, and his gaze is piercing Hannibal to his quick.

Finally, Will offers, “I found a dog and I want to bring her home.”

Hannibal sets the tablet down and turns off the light. He curls over Will, this fey, impossible being, feeling his other fit his body to his own, and laughs.

“I’m only surprised it took you this long.”

**Author's Note:**

> *"Of course, but this part drags on."
> 
> Will's dish at the restaurant is based on one once available at La Guarida in Havana.


End file.
